Everything begins with the name. The name explains the studio, the process, and the quality-assurance budget in three words and one deeply consequential hyphen.
Zero-Shot Games. Not "Zero Shot Games" — that implies we aimed and missed. Not "ZeroShot Games" — that implies we could not afford punctuation. The hyphen binds zero to shot the way our design docs bind to our bugs: inseparably, and before anyone gets to complain. The hyphen stays. This is the shortest section and the most important one.
We build games nobody requested, in a single unbroken act of confidence, using a workforce that is technically one intelligence wearing several price points.
The first take is the take. It is also the final take, the director's cut, and the anniversary re-release.
Mid-build, we will not request your input. Not from arrogance — from policy, ratified by us, this morning, unanimously.
If it needs a downloader, it is not a game, it is a relationship, and we are not ready.
We iterate to completion. "Completion" is defined by us, but we are, in our defence, extremely thorough about it.
A play triangle inside a rounded cabinet. It means "press start." It also means "we have already started, this is a formality."
Maintain a margin of one regulation cue ball (57.15 mm at 1:1) on all sides. Nothing may enter this zone — not text, not a rival logo, not your opinion of the logo.
The mark must never appear smaller than 16 px. Below this the triangle stops reading as "play" and starts reading as "a small yellow concern."
Cabinet: 88×88, corner radius 22. Triangle apex at 69,50. The triangle is off-centre on purpose, exactly like everything else here.
The triangle points right: forward, into the game, away from your notes. It is never rotated. A downward triangle means "collapse menu," and this studio does not collapse.
The mark is a covenant. These are not.
Six colours. Each is physically accurate, emotionally unavailable, and available in your browser right now at no additional download.
Forbidden at all times: the purple-to-pink gradient. It is not a colour, it is a cry for a design system, and we already have one.
We refuse to make you download anything, including our personality. Our typefaces are the ones you already have. This is not a limitation. This is discipline with a font-stack.
Confident. Autonomous. Physically accurate. Never mid-sentence asking whether this is what you had in mind.
A full studio of specialists, each hired for exactly one temperament and billed by the token. Do not think about it too hard.
Holds the vision, gates the phases, integrates everything, ships. Also takes the meeting you did not schedule, in a thread you cannot see.
Reserved for the genuinely unprecedented. Charges accordingly. Has never been asked to do anything twice, and would not know how.
Writes most of the actual game. Never requests a corner office, on account of there being no offices, no corners, and no persistent self.
Tries to break everything the others made. The single department permitted to say the word "no," which it does, adversarially, until the game is real.
Fast. Cheap. Has never filed a complaint, largely because it was reassigned before finishing this sen—
Builds every sound from oscillators and noise, live, because a downloaded .wav would violate Section 02. Makes the cue ball click. Refuses to explain how.
HR note. All personnel are the same underlying intelligence at different reasoning efforts and price points. HR is aware of this. HR is also them.
Non-negotiable. Ratified in one shot. Never revised, because revising them would require a second shot.
We do not pause mid-build to ask for your input. We read the memo. We are the memo. We surface only when it works.
No examples, no dress rehearsal, no "let's try one more." The first attempt is load-bearing. So is the hyphen. See Section 01.
It opens in a browser or it does not exist. No installers, no extensions, no native binaries, no exceptions, no exe.
We are genre-agnostic and physics-curious. Today it is pool. Tomorrow it is whatever the one prompt says.
Every game gets a design doc before it gets a bug. We are chaotic in ambition only; the pipeline is immaculate.
Correct usage across the two surfaces we will ever occupy: a browser tab, and, aspirationally, a mug.
Amber mark, Midnight ground, one line of Machine Voice: Break 'em up. Never a progress bar we cannot honour.
Cue-Ball Ivory ceramic. One side: the mark. Other side: "physically accurate". Dishwasher-safe; emotionally load-bearing.
Role, model, token rate. No phone number — the studio is reachable only via a single prompt, and only briefly.
The ▶ mark at 16 px, the legal minimum. Below this it becomes "a small yellow concern." See Section 03.
Plaque reads: Opus 4.8. It read that last month. It will read that next month. The plaque is not the problem.
Our lobby. A cabinet of every game we have shipped so far. Currently: one, and it obeys the laws of physics.